


A collection of short Homestuck fics reposted here from tumblr

by maypop



Category: Homestuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 07:16:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6972481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maypop/pseuds/maypop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contains:<br/>1.  Feferi Peixes and the mutually assured destruction clause<br/>2. SPNstuck<br/>3. Rose Strider<br/>4. Rose ♠ Terezi ♥ Dave restaurantstuck</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Feferi Peixes and the mutually assured destruction clause

“Predecessors of mine,” Rose Lalonde says. “–Though my exact title is of recent vintage, there have been a thousand Western politicians who stood before a Russian autocrat and wondered if they were one of us, or some unknowable them, or worse yet a combination–predecessors of mine may have underestimated how vast your land is, how many live there, and how little you care if they die, Comrade Peixes. I shall not.”

“I completely lost track of that sentence,” the misapplied attache and translator Comrade Vriska Serket informs you. “But it was boring and totally xenophobic, so look mad.”

“I speak English!” you say, not in that language. “And she speaks Russian, everyone knows that.” You show Miss Rose Lalonde your teeth. You have quite a lot of them, and you are disappointed when she doesn’t stare. Vriska drifts towards the lone troll in Lalonde’s small party, a tall female with mismatched horns. “She should also know that of course I care how many of my people die. I am not the one talking of war.”

“It is my job to ensure that remains the case,” Lalonde says. “For all your valiantly drab clothing, you still say _your_ people, and your caste has something of a reputation.”

“Ah,” you say. “Whaaaaaale, your country does struggle with judging people based on old caste systems, Comrade, so I will not be offended by you comparing me to–that troll.” You grin wider.

“A very palpable hit,” she murmurs. “Let’s smile for the cameras, shall we?”

You do so. You do the smile, the handshake, and then back inside for the serious heads bent towards each other very serious politicians discussing important matters shot, where you can talk again so long as your mouths don’t make any shapes a reporter can read curses into.

“No victory nor armistice,” Lalonde is going on about.

“You are not making it very easy to like you,” you say.

Rose nods thoughtfully in a coruscation of flashbulbs. “I’m told my reporters are struggling–they want to call it the Peixes Thaw, but apparently you’re all called that, and ‘Feferi’ doesn’t come too easily to our tongues.”

“When our reporters struggle, I cut them down,” you say. “Joke! Joke, Roes. Anywave,” you add. “I was talking about a fight between me and you.”

“Oh,” she says, and her eyebrows jerk up. She surveys you, a tiny human woman in half a dozen coats. “Well. That depends. With your height, I’m quite close to where your gillflaps ought to be, are they as sensitive as is reported?”

You laugh, and that’s the picture that will make the newspapers. “You’ll do,” you tell Rose Lalonde. “Your assistant has disappeared with my translator, though, should I be worried?”


	2. SPNstuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Per tumblr user isozyme: "So the theory of supernaturalstuck is to take SPN, retain all the good setting shit, scoop out all the tragic manpain, and fill the void with tragic Rose Lalonde pain. In practice it is about how hot Rose is with really short hair and a lot of magic tattoos, and making fun of Sollux’s butt, and what happens when you give all eight Strider-Lalondes a lot of weapons and extra battle trauma and sit them down for Thanksgiving dinner."

You walk into the kitchen to find your sister has your favorite demon in a headlock, being dragged towards the preposterously large turkey.

“Woah,” you say. “Um, hey. I was preparing a bunch of lesbian oyster stuffing jokes and I really don’t appreciate having to shelve them for this.”

“I’m afraid there’s no stuffing, just dressing,” Rose says, tilting her head towards the pan lurking behind the turkey. Terezi takes one hand off the arm around her throat and grabs the fridge handle. When Rose gives another tug the door jerks open, the fridge swaying dangerously. The added weight arrests their progress across the yellow tile for the moment. “Food safety concerns, I’m told.”

“It’s made to be stuffed, regardless of whether it’s actually stuffed right now,” Sollux puts in from the corner. You are not going to study the expressions on the new body’s face, both because you don’t care, and because he won’t keep it, and, actually, three things, because you’re pretty sure this is unabashed boner town for him.

You ignore the little voice appending “too” to that thought.

An onion is rattled out of the fridge and rolls across the floor. “As you like. I’ve a more pressing concern–apparently the turkey is undersalted,” Rose says, bracing her legs more firmly. “The turkey is undersalted, according to the hellbegotten gourmet. The turkey is undersalted for–”

“No, hold up, hold up,” you say. You sidle around the scuffle to lean against the fridge and keep it from tipping over and getting beer and millionaire pie all over the floor. “If it’s not stuffed, it’s not stuffing. Quod erat fucking done, that is all there is to it.”

“A bowl doesn’t stop being a bowl with nothing in it,” Sollux argues. “It doesn’t turn into a hat the minute you dump your nasty cheerios out–”

“Jesus, just because I don’t like sugar-frosted adderall chips–” Terezi’s fingers slip off the handle, and you throw a knee up awkwardly, keeping the pies from sliding out when the fridge sways. “–Rose are you attempting to salt the turkey with our sex demon’s tears.”

Boner Town absorbs Fort Damn Girl in 2011, becomes incorporated township.

“I’d have salt if she’d stop leaving those adorable coy little clues for that water demon,” Rose says.

Terezi gets her fingers wrapped around Rose’s thumb and pulls, getting space between her windpipe and Rose’s gun show. “ _Adorabubble,_ ” she wheezes triumphantly, and sweeps her leg back hard. They go down in a thrash of fish-pun-induced flinches and gasping cackles. Sollux dives out of his chair to grab Terezi’s ankles and pull them away from the card table the food is all set out on. You cut yourself a chunk of _dressing_ and eat it with your fingers.


	3. Rose Strider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on this art 
> 
> http://angerliz.tumblr.com/post/29351608260/angerliz-happy-birthday-one-last-daytime

You get smacked on one elbow, your knee, and kicked back against that one hobo’s hoard of Dominoes boxes before you put two and two together and get–

“Goodness, this walloping has a theme,” you say. “You shouldn’t’ve.”

“If you have breath to talk, you have breath to strife,” Bro says, and keeps coming. You throw a pizza box because you know he can’t resist the urge to showily slice it in half, and that gives you time to scramble up again.

You are, not to put too fine a point on it, extremely goddamn good. Certainly the best just-turned-thirteen swordswoman in the neighborhood, probably in all of Texas, or you would be if people counted completely insane things like that. It doesn’t matter, you’re still a hundred pounds, for all that even Bro will admit it’s a hundred pounds of full shitkicker. You take hit four on your left bicep. The flat of the sword, so just a bruise, but one that feels deep.

Five and six and seven come in rapid succession. The man twirls like he missed his calling in the corps de ballet, and acid exhaustion is eating the speed from your limbs, but you make him work for eight. Your arms are shaking now but your legs have enough juice to play dodgeball with the stupid wobbly glued together flea market katana for what feels like a full age of man, but the damned Dominoes box apparently had its little garlic sauce packet still inside and you don’t see it until your heel comes down and it explodes and you slide in the greasy slick, ass and then sword and then elbow and then shoulder slamming into the roof.

Bro taps your side. Eight. “Is that how you fall? Are you going to cut me with your feet when you shatter that elbow?”

 _I remembered to tuck my head this time_ , is not something you say. Instead you try for a groin shot and get _nine_ across the side of the head.

“Quit playing around. Get up.”

You fix your glasses (this is allowed, this is proper drama) and lever yourself up. You roll your wrist, and the sword thunks to one side like an unbalanced table.

“Rose. Kid.”

You throw the sword at his face. It is amazingly satisfying, even though he turns his flashstep dodge into _ten_ , a nick on your throwing forearm.

“Rose that is so cute,” your Bro says. You are sure he means it. “And we still aren’t done.”

“Oh, pardon, I thought a headshot was the universal sign for dead,” you say. “The dinner mints of the beat down, as it were.”

You retrieve your sword and launch a tired charge. Getting angry won’t make you better. Pep talks won’t make you better. Believing in yourself won’t make you better.

 _Eleven_ bruises your hip, but you manage to ruin his shirt. _Twelve_ is a footsweep you don’t even see before you hit your ass and–

“Thirteen,” Bro says, touching the tip of his sword to the hollow of your throat perfunctorily.

You spread your arms, cruciform. “Dear brother. One to grow on?”

He turns away. You let yourself sag, and drag air into your lungs with all the desperation you’ve been hiding. Your reflexes are still good enough to catch the thing he throws as it comes flying at you, though.

“Happy birthday.”

In a million years and eight million hoops jumped through later there might be a world where there is conciliation, where someone says _if the universe had died and you survived then my whole shitty life would have been worth it, and if the universe survived but you didn’t I would have broken it again so I could come back and kick your ass harder_.

Or maybe not. Maybe there’s just this squiddle.


	4. Restaurantstuck

This is how shit flows downhill:

Chef Lalonde’s freaky alien hategirlfriend (and Dave’s entirely normal human style actually liking each other alien girlfriend) has her columns on Rose’s desk before the magazine even hits print, because this way her (“obnoxious, distracting, there are games to be played with structure that challenge the mind and then there is Terezi Pyrope”) typing quirk isn’t edited out, and the full color version of her comics can be appreciated. Rose reads her reviews meticulously and then starts making a thank you for your insight into criminal derangement croquembouche, but not before turning the tiny kitchen tv to one of her many saved copies of Throwdown with Bobby Flay.

Karkat is so black for Bobby “PISSED ON THE DEGRADED CORPSE OF IRON CHEF” Flay that Dave is forced to use troll terminology. Karkat is so black for Bobby Flay that when Jade comes in with blue corn chips (Megid0’s Burrit0s: because we all die s0meday) he has a complete hateboner meltdown and has to be sent to the walk-in to cool off.

So now salad is empty, which means Jade has to stop gutting rabbits and jump on the line, and if Dave never sees another salad go out with the ingredients arranged by ph, well, Zazzerpan’s might actually survive.

It turns out to be Feferi Piexes’ salad, and she worse than dislikes it, she loves it. Her Staggering Presumption, Her Symbolic in This New Universe Titleship, Heiress to Nothing Much, Coldest Blood of All and Investor in Terrible Ideas bursts into the kitchen, wanting to talk about Jade’s fascinating new angle. Rose is too busy filling profiteroles with fire ants to talk her down, Dave is spinning between range and fryer and flat top like eighteen dreidels in a blender, and Jade can’t say no to pretty hyperactive harajuku troll girls even if they’re selling punches in the throat.

So Zazzerpan’s might lose its butcher to some idiotic start up, which means losing their “beclaws you are pitifurr!!” discount from Leijon’s Meats, which means health inspector Zahhak looking a little harder at the state of their kitchen. Not that it isn't clean, but the health code has some seriously barbaric ideas about their speaker system, and Harley is, yeah, a little bit raised by wolves when it comes to getting blood everywhere.

The thought of losing Jade’s “8oneriffic” way with tearing chickens apart distresses Vriska so much she deserts the dish pit before lunch is completely over, to hide in the men’s room and commune with the saint’s medal she’d glued a picture of Anthony Bourdain to. They run out of plates with ten minutes to spare and Dave has to send a steak out in a bowl, and trust John’s extremely dubious spin skills to convince the customer it’s supposed to be this way.

“I quit,” Dave tells Rose, when the rush is over. “I quit so hard, I quit like polaroid breaking hipster hearts, I quit like whatever conscience you had quit the day you went to France, I quit like fuck me I didn’t even see you take this out of the oven, what are you?”

Rose slowly draws the bottom of her spatula over the rim of the cup in his hand, leaving a thick layer of coffee infused whipped cream on top.

“Did you know it’s just le Cordon these days? They decided the Bleu was casteist.”

“Iff changeff uffing,” Dave says, through a mouthful of fallen chocolate souffle.

“Ah, that reminds me,” Rose says. “I have reservations at Gemini tonight, you should come.”

“Yeah, sure, if we can actually go out to eat afterwards. Does it taste better because you know I hate that guy?”

Rose turns back to her croquembouche, gently wedges a sugar-dusted blackberry in the space where three profiteroles come together. “You know, it really does.”


End file.
